Bad Day Gone Right
by TheFriendlyBookworm
Summary: Starship captains aren't supposed to have bad days. And they don't, with a crew like Kirk's.  Oneshot.


Kirk sighed and poked miserably at his chicken soup. Starship captains weren't supposed to have bad days. Yeah, right.

First it was Doctor Zendall. Kirk had been slightly suspicious when Komack wouldn't stop grinning over the commlink. He found out why when said doctor stepped off the transporter pad. "I've never had such a disturbing transport in my life," Zendall had begun ranting immediately. Kirk was only too glad when the doctor was in his quarters—with security guards serenely wandering the corridors outside at all times, thanks to a certain very perceptive Vulcan.

Then it was the cold. Kirk had thought it was just a stuffy nose at first (not that that made any sense, with the ship's immaculate atmosphere); after he almost coughed his breakfast up, Sickbay suddenly seemed like a glowing beacon of health and wellness. Until he got there and discovered that visiting physicians are allowed free roam of the ship's medical premises. He shuddered once more at the thought of Bones attempting to scan him, but in vain, with Zendall's high, nasal tones shattering the serene Sickbay quiet with strident orders on how to "use the current Starfleet scanner to its fullest efficiency."

And then it was his birthday. Sure, a Starfleet officer's birthday shouldn't matter. But it did, to him...as a child, birthdays had been special occasions in his family, and the abrupt change to the you-are-a-number-on-a-chart-not-a-person policy of Starfleet had been startling. He tried to ignore it, not let anyone know he missed the candles, the well-wishes, the little things that made a birthday special. It wasn't important, he told himself.

Not even Bones had remembered.

Now, here he was, sitting alone in Officer's Mess, having a pity-party over chicken soup. He wished Spock was there—but the Vulcan had had to assist with something in the labs. He sighed and pushed the tray away. He wasn't hungry.

What a day.

"Captain."

He jumped. Turning around, he felt a small smile grow across his face. "Spock! I thought you were busy. Sit down."

Spock shook his head slightly. "I believe you are wanted on the bridge, Captain."

Kirk's forehead furrowed slightly. "And they couldn't just comm me?" he queried.

Spock only cocked an eyebrow ambiguously.

"Oh, fine," Kirk muttered, standing and deciding to leave his tray where it was—let Maintenance get it. He didn't feel particularly generous at the moment. Spock turned and headed for the door. He followed with a sigh.

* * *

><p>The turbolift doors swished open, revealing a perfectly normal Bridge scene: Uhura with a hand on her earpiece, tapping on her panels. Sulu and Chekov making minor adjustments to the nav controls while murmuring occasionally together. Engineering and science personnel moved quietly about the other side of the room. Kirk spotted Dr. McCoy standing by the comm chair. <em>Probably<em>_taking__a__breather__from__Zendall,_he thought wryly.

Uhura threw him a sympathetic glance as he moved towards the chair and Bones. "Sorry about the cold, sir," she said quietly, her musical tones soft among the mechanical sounds of the ship.

He smiled weakly and stepped down to his usual seat, Spock moving to the science station behind him.

The doctor moved out of his way, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Kirk shot him a tired glance and started to sit, but stopped as a glint of metallic green and gold on the seat caught his eye.

A present. A perfectly wrapped, color-coordinated present. The green-and-gold wrapping paper was the exact shade of his favorite shirt. On top, a matching card sported the embossed words, "Happy Birthday to a Great Captain."

McCoy was grinning now, and Spock had somehow gotten down around to the other side of the chair. "I believe the intent was for you to open it, Captain," he said seriously, but a small twinkle in his chocolate eyes did not go unnoticed by Kirk.

He started to remove the wrapping paper, carefully, so as not to tear the flimsy metallic sheet. McCoy scowled at him, the bright twinkle in his eyes spoiled the effect. "Aw, Jim, just open it...the stuff's only replicated."

He hadn't ripped open a present since he was little. But it sure felt good. Kirk glanced up, and was surprised that the Bridge had gone entirely still; everyone watching him with slightly-cheesy grins on their faces.

The removal of the wrapping paper revealed a plain, white, square box. He opened the top. And gasped.

Inside was perfect rendition of the _Enterprise_ in miniature. Lifting her out, he ran his finger over the sleek lines of the engines, the curve of the hull, the tiny doors of the shuttle bay. She was just the right weight; felt like she was meant to be there in his hands.

Now Spock was reaching past him into the box and producing from it a small mag-lens. He handed it to Kirk. "I believe you might find a closer view interesting, Captain."

Kirk took it, and peered through it at the Bridge. They were all there, just like always—Uhura at the comm panels, with one hand on her earpiece, turning around to alert the captain of some message. Spock, at his science station, bending over his viewfinder. Sulu and Chekov, alert and facing the viewscreen. Himself in the center chair, looking erect and confident.

He moved over to the Sickbay windows. There was a perfect, tiny Bones, preparing a hypo for a red-clad patient on the nearest biobed. Nurse Chapel was frozen in the background, replicating med equipment.

He shifted the lens to Engineering. Scotty stood in the middle of the large—now tiny—room, gesturing to one of the bulkheads, probably exclaiming over some invisible speck of dirt on the smooth surface. Engineers obediently scurried this way and that, in the middle of evidently very important jobs.

Interrupting his observations, McCoy smiled shyly, and pointing at the box, said, "There's a base to go with it. For your quarters or something."

Kirk pulled out a satin-smooth, dark wood base; probably Terran mahogany, from the look of it. An engraved brass plaque on the side read:

_James T. Kirk_

_The man whose ship is his namesake_

_Happy Birthday from his crew_

Funny, the choking feeling in his throat. He glanced up at McCoy, whose grin had now reach a cheesy width. "This your idea, Bones?" he asked.

"It was all Spock's idea, Jim. He did all the work." The doctor shook his head emphatically.

A not-smile quirked the corners of Spock's mouth. "On the contrary, I believe it was the doctor who-"

He was cut off by McCoy's impatient gesture. "Oh, stow it, Spock, it was all you."

"I did nothing besides-"

"Everything?"

"Hardly, Doctor."

They kept up the friendly banter as Kirk picked up the box, its wrappings, the base, the mag-lens, and the tiny ship, and sat down in the chair.

McCoy finally silenced Spock by turning to the captain and saying, "Everybody did something, Jim. We just...um..." He stammered to a stop, but Uhura finished smoothly.

"We just wanted you to know how much we appreciate you. Happy Birthday, Captain."

He knew he wouldn't be able to get the smile of his face as the rest of the bridge crew took up the chorus, Chekov's "Many happy returns of ze day, Keptin," mixing with McCoy's southern "Happy Birthday, Jim-boy." Everyone was smiling; most with their mouths, one with his eyebrows.

Kirk settled more comfortably into the chair, stroking the smooth hull of his mini _Enterprise._

Starship captains weren't supposed to have bad days.

And they never did.


End file.
